


Torrid

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sauna, Semi-Public Sex, Size Kink, Strength Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'I’m just observing,' Marco says, framing the words to the open spread of his fingers bracing at the slats of the sauna bench beneath him as he watches sweat drip to soak dark spots into the wood. 'We really shouldn’t be doing this, I’d say.'" Marco and Gaou add heat of their own to a trip to the sauna.





	Torrid

“I’m just observing,” Marco says, framing the words to the open spread of his fingers bracing at the slats of the sauna bench beneath him as he watches sweat drip to soak dark spots into the wood. “We really shouldn’t be doing this, I’d say.”

Gaou’s laugh is more of a snort than anything else, a harsh expulsion of air from the depths of his chest that comes with a forward thrust of his fingers enough to dip Marco’s lashes and urge the air from his lungs in a helpless groan. “You brought the lube with you.”

“I did,” Marco says without opening his eyes. He can feel sweat sliding down the slope of his shoulders where he’s bracing himself on hands and knees against the bench, can feel it pooling in the small of his back like the steam in the air given weight as it collects at his skin. He feels lightheaded, like the world is coming untethered around him and starting to spin idly; he can’t tell if it’s the fault more of the heat weighting his lungs with every inhale or the heavy stroke of Gaou’s paired fingers working into the tension of his body. He breathes in deliberately deeply, savoring the feel of the steam filling his lungs as much as the way the flex of his body clenches tight around the width of Gaou’s fingers, until he imagines he can feel the ridge of each knuckle individually inside him. “It’s important to be prepared.”

“Bullshit,” Gaou tells him, as direct in his judgment as he is in his praise. His bracing hand at Marco’s hip tightens; when he pulls back the force is enough to rock Marco back over his heels, to urge his body back and onto Gaou’s fingers as much as the other pushes forward and into him. Marco’s breath spills out of him, Marco’s cock jerks towards his stomach. “You want this.” Gaou draws his hand back to slide another long thrust forward. His fingers stretch and pull inside the tension of Marco’s body. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Marco closes his mouth and swallows in a futile attempt to regain some moisture for his throat. “You have a game tomorrow,” he says, feeling his heat-chapped lips ache with the motion as Gaou’s fingers flex inside him, the other feeling out the give of Marco’s body like he’s testing the stretch of it. “I’d say staying too long in the sauna is a bad idea.”

“I’m fine,” Gaou says, his tone dismissive but the words certain enough that Marco doesn’t question them any more than he really intended the protest in the first place. Gaou’s fingers pull back, withdrawing from Marco’s body in one long, smooth slide; Marco can feel himself clench down against the friction, can feel his body seize like it’s trying to hold Gaou to him in spite of his best efforts to go slack and hot. Gaou snorts another laugh and reaches for Marco’s other hip to bracket the other’s body between his oversized hands. “ _You_  have a game tomorrow.” Gaou pulls and Marco slides back, sweat-slick knees dragging over the polished wood of the bench as the other maneuvers him back and up against Gaou’s thigh, still covered with the loose wrapping of the towel to match the one Marco let drop to the floor some minutes ago. Marco looks back over his shoulder; Gaou might still be wearing the towel, might be maintaining some measure of decency beyond what Marco’s slick skin and heavy cock are offering, but the sheer size and strain of his obvious erection are tenting the thin fabric well beyond any real claim at propriety. It makes Marco’s lashes flutter, makes his throat work over heat enough to match that hanging so heavy in the air, and meanwhile Gaou is pulling him up, drawing Marco up against the solid support of his thigh without any visible awareness of the other’s weight. Marco reaches out to clutch at Gaou’s shoulder, to cling to the support of the other beneath him, but he doesn’t really need to; Gaou’s casual grip on his hips is bruise-tight, unflinching even as he lets one hand go so he can reach for the edge of his towel instead and tug it loose of his hips. The white slides away, Gaou’s cock juts up and into full view, and Marco has to look away again just to remember how to breathe around the spasm of reckless want that runs through the whole of his body.

“This won’t be easy,” Gaou says: a statement, not bragging. “Are you sure?”

Marco knows without being told. He remembers every time he sleeps with Gaou for days afterwards: in the strain in his thighs, in the tension in his back, in the dull, deep-down ache inside him that lingers for long hours and keeps him sleeping shallow around the flushed-skin memory of their last interaction. But Gaou’s hand is at his hip, Gaou’s fingerprints are layered into the sweat on his skin, and Marco can feel the ache already, the sharp edge of want forming itself around the emptiness formed by Gaou’s fingers inside him, and he knows no matter how he feels tomorrow he wants this right now.

He ducks his head and gusts a heavy exhale. “It’s worth it,” he says. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Gaou doesn’t answer in words. He just laughs, that low, rumbling one that Marco can feel down in the angle of his hips, like it’s an earthquake running up through the soles of his feet to ground out against the base of his spine; and then he reaches up again, and his hands close on Marco’s hips, and when he draws back Marco slides in and over the solid heat of Gaou’s thigh and around to balance atop the other’s lap. The head of Gaou’s cock bumps the base of his spine, the full heat of it fitting in against his body like it’s settling into place; but they haven’t begun yet, Marco knows, and his breathing is sticking in his chest even as he tries to inhale slow past the strain of it. His hands are shaking, he can feel the tremor of anticipation running up through his sweat-slick thighs and in along the line of his shoulders as he reaches to brace himself at Gaou’s knee under him, to gain himself some kind of stability, but it’s a lost cause, instinct making a failing attempt impossible, because Gaou is pulling Marco back and up and Marco is going, the solid weight of his body lifted between the grip of Gaou’s hands like he weighs no more than the footballs Gaou so easily braces in a single palm. Marco’s head tips forward, his lungs strain around the gasp of air he struggles through; and Gaou lifts him up, and pulls him into place, and the thick heat of his flushed cock slides in to fit again Marco’s entrance. Marco’s fingers tense, Marco’s breath rushes from him, and Gaou pulls him down, his grip doing as much as gravity to bring the other down and over the wide heat of his cock. Marco’s throat tenses as Gaou moves him, his lungs spilling his exhale over itself and into a moan he can feel down in the very depths of his stomach as Gaou slides up and into him, but Gaou doesn’t pull away, and Marco just keeps sliding down, his motion urged by the weight of his body pushing him down and onto Gaou’s cock. The pressure spears up into him, strain forcing him wide as Gaou sheathes himself deep into Marco’s body; and then Marco’s thighs come flush with Gaou’s, and Marco gasps a tiny, shallow inhale, and the pressure stills, lodging itself at too-much but no more while Marco pants for air and tries to remember to be grateful for this small reprieve. It’s harder than it should be, and not because of the edge of pain threatening his thoughts, not for the aching tension in his body voicing protest to the intrusion of Gaou working inside him.

It’s hard because Marco doesn’t want Gaou to wait.

“Keep,” he starts, but he lacks the air for it, he can’t fill his lungs with breath enough to make it through the whole of his sentence. He has to close his mouth, has to strain for air through his nose before he can attempt speech again, before he can even come close to coherency. His voice sounds high when he manages to force it past his lips, it’s skidding out in a way he can’t restrain. “Keep going.”

Gaou’s hands shift at Marco’s hips; not a rejection but a consideration, like he’s fitting his hold to a more secure grip now that that first moment of coordination is past. “You’re still shaking.”

It’s a statement, not a refusal. Marco shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. His chest feels pressurized, from the heat or the strain or both, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. “I don’t care.” He digs his nails into Gaou’s knee, forcing traction under his grip as he rocks himself back, shifting his weight to gain fractionally more depth to their connection. He can feel the resistance of Gaou’s length inside him, like the heat of the other’s cock is enough to hold him rigid while Marco fucks himself back on that unflinching pressure. It makes his own cock twitch, spilling a droplet of precome against the head to slide slick along the shaft and down towards his balls. “Don’t worry about me, I’d say.”

Gaou huffs a breath; it might be a laugh, Marco isn’t sure. It’s hard to tell when his heart is pounding so hard in his chest, when his hearing is going strange and echoey with every breath he takes. “Alright,” Gaou says, his sometimes stubbornness giving way to compliance in this, and his hands brace at Marco’s hips, his arms flex to shift the other up and off him by a half-inch. “I won’t.” Marco sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his whole spine prickle with heat somewhere between arousal and panic at that statement that falls with all the force of a promise; and then Gaou tips himself back against the wall behind him, and pulls Marco down onto him, and every thought in Marco’s mind is forced up and out of him as Gaou’s cock drives up to fill the whole of his body with heat.

There’s no space for Marco to move. His angle is bad anyway, sitting over Gaou’s lap with the curve of his spine pressing to the other’s chest; he would have to fight just to get his feet braced against something, would have to clutch at the solid weight of Gaou’s thighs under him to gain any kind of consistent motion. But it doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t need to move; because Gaou is moving for him, Gaou’s hands are like a vice at his hips to draw him up and slide him back down over the thick heat of the other’s shaft, like the other is fucking himself with Marco more than bothering with an actual upward thrust of his hips. It doesn’t make a difference; it’s enough all as it is, Marco thinks, somewhere in the dizzy rhythm of the thoughts that form themselves around the slick pressure moving into him and the friction of Gaou’s cock sliding in against his inner walls. His own cock is twitching with each thrust, the head swollen and dark even with his hands gripping for needless traction at the tops of Gaou’s thighs instead of closing around the shaft; his body is flushed with heat, his skin pink with the threat of too-much warmth hanging in the air, but inside him Gaou’s cock feels hotter still, like it’s burning with painless fire to lick in against every desperate nerve ending in Marco’s body. Marco is shaking, his wrists and elbows and shoulders all quivering with the threat of giving way, his thighs spread wide against the outside of Gaou’s and his toes curling against the unresisting heat of the air; and then Gaou shifts again, and braces his feet at the floor, and when he moves next his hips come up to match his hands, his cock sliding deeper into Marco by what can’t be more than a half-inch, what feel like a foot, enough that Marco’s breath catches against what feels like impossible pressure driving up and into him. Marco’s head goes back, his throat opens on a groan of helpless, reflexive heat, and Gaou’s hands push at him, angling his hips down and forward to shift their angle before he starts to thrust in earnest, fucking up hard into Marco over him with short, sharp movements that Marco can feel unravelling any hope of coherency he has ever had from his tongue. Marco’s moaning, his breathing is following the guidance of Gaou’s cock instead of his own volition; he feels like he’s going to suffocate, like he’s going to pass out, like the too-much heat will swamp him and drag him down into the black of unconsciousness. But his cock is still aching, and Gaou is still moving in him, and more even than dizziness the tension in him is rising too, shaking in his thighs and quivering in his shoulders until he’s hiccuping for air, until he’s lost track of everything around him except for:

“Oh,” Marco hears himself say, his voice strange, distant and high and breathless. “I’m--” and Gaou’s hips snap up, Gaou’s cock drives into him, and Marco’s whole body curves into an arc of heat, his head and shoulders and back all drawing into a curve of involuntary strain as his legs spasm, as his cock jerks into pleasure. He can hear himself gasping, the breaths breaking open into whimpering, helpless sounds, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter any more than the rattle of his heart in his chest or the hiss of effort on his breathing, because he’s shaking with the force of his orgasm, waves of relief are coursing through him and his cock is spurting wet onto those polished floorboards and his thoughts are going dizzy but his body is radiant with sensation, there’s relief trembling through all the tension in his body, and it’s enough, he made it, he held on as long as he needed to. Marco lets the surges of sensation run through him, lets his orgasm run its full course until his whole self is shaky and weak; and then he lets himself go slack, lets his head drop forward and his shoulders slump, and he listens to the rasp of his breathing and wonders if he’s going to pass out before Gaou finishes. He can feel the heat rushing over him in waves, can feel himself tremble with each impulse of it; but Gaou is still moving, still working with that unstoppable rhythm like he never intends to ease, and Marco is content enough to quiver with the electric aftershocks of pleasure and watch the idle slide of his heat-hazed thoughts while Gaou seeks out his own satisfaction within the tension of Marco’s body.

It takes him a long span of seconds, some period of time that drifts unmeasured past Marco’s overheated awareness; he doesn’t come back to the present until he feels Gaou’s hands tighten at his hips, until the other thrusts up with so much force Marco can feel his whole body jerk with the motion. Marco’s breath spills from him, his vision hazing out of focus; and inside him Gaou’s cock pulses, the force of the other’s orgasm strong enough that Marco imagine he can feel each individual twitch of pleasure as Gaou comes into him. Marco shudders with the heat of it, feels his body go hot and then cold, like a shiver running through the very core of him; and then his vision blurs out, and stays that way, even as Gaou sighs relief and goes slack beneath him. Marco’s thighs are aching, the whole inside line of them protesting the splayed-leg position he’s in; but his hands are slipping against Gaou’s thighs, his grip is giving way as his vision tunnels in to black and his breathing catches with what would be panic, he thinks, if he had the focus for it. As it is he feels like he’s watching someone else collapse, like he has the very clear awareness of his own consciousness flickering up and out of his grip as his body goes slack, as his weight starts to tip forward; and then he runs up against a support, his fall to the floor stalled out by a grip like iron around his waist, and Marco blinks, his vision swimming back to him as he slumps heavy against the casual support of the arm Gaou has hooked around his waist.

“Don’t pass out,” Gaou says, as calmly as if this is an order Marco is even able to obey, much less likely to. “You should cool off first.”

Marco huffs a laugh, the amusement too strong in his chest for him to even try to repress, and he shuts his eyes, deliberately dropping himself into the relief of darkness for a moment while he takes a deep breath of the overheated air and wills strength back into his exhausted limbs, at least enough that he can hold himself in place while Gaou maneuvers him up and off the other’s lap.

“Yes,” he says. “I’d say you’re right about that.”


End file.
